


The Drowned World

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7360123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's life as a swimmer.  Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drowned World

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I am back. Thanks for the good wishes about Watson. We are waiting for some test results, but it seems most likely that perhaps he is just getting a bit old and not thinking as clearly as he used to. I can emphasise.
> 
> Anyway, I had great fun with this story and, yes, I say that all the time, but I love writing these characters whatever and wherever. Hope you enjoy this entry. Let me know!

When he was twelve years old, just before he got his major growth spurt, Sherlock Holmes one day drifted into the deep water of the pond behind the house and very nearly drowned. In fact, he genuinely thought he was dying, as the water closed over him for the third time. And although Sherlock knew very well how to swim, he suddenly could not remember how to move his arms and legs properly. As he experienced his lungs struggling, Sherlock felt vaguely disappointed that he would never know if life could be anything but irritating and rather lonely. He was aware of the pebbly bottom of the pond against his skin just before everything went black

As it happened, Mycroft turned up in time to see that third and final descent as his little brother made it and jumped in to rescue him. He dragged Sherlock to the side of the pond and up onto the grass. When he realised that there seemed to be no actual breathing going on, he even performed some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, a fact that neither of them ever mentioned. Ever.

As a recovered Sherlock lay there and watched a few puffy white clouds drift across the sky, pointedly ignoring his brother’s lecture about the idiocy of accidentally drowning in the bloody pond, it occurred to him that nearly dying was rather exciting.

It made living much more interesting.

*

After that idiotic yet not-boring experience in the pond, Sherlock began a new experiment that he carried on with for the rest of that summer and then revisited periodically over the next few years. Whenever he was in the bath, Sherlock would submerge himself and hold his breath for as long as he could. It seemed a good skill to develop, he thought. And it was so interesting when behind his closed eyes he could see the flashing lights and kaleidoscope colours.

Once, probably in search of a place to smoke an illicit cigarette, Mycroft wandered in [ _note to self: lock the bloody door next time!_ and caught him mid-experiment. He waited until Sherlock emerged from below the water and then called him an idiot.

*

Sherlock was high and Sebastian was being even more annoying than usual, so they quarrelled again. Later, he could not remember what this particular disagreement was about---Sherlock’s refusal to help Seb cheat on the physics final, the equal sharing of the coke, or maybe the fact that the arse had snuck in to Sherlock’s room to borrow a pair of socks and entirely destroyed the index. Didn’t matter, really, because suddenly Sherlock was too wearied by the whole scene to stay in the residence hall for one more minute.

He left the hall and wandered the quiet streets of Cambridge for an unknown period of time. It wasn’t until he was halfway through the dark alley that he realised he had company.

The two townies were leaning against the wall, smoking---Mayfairs, of course---and watching him approach. He didn’t much care for the smirking expressions they had and if Sherlock had been thinking a bit more clearly, he might have turned around and run back to the hall.

Probably not, though.

Instead, he straightened his shoulders, gave a toss of his [ _mygod, Sherlock, when are you going to get a haircut? Mummy will be appalled._ curls, and adopted his most haughty face. Then he walked on.

They took his wallet, of course, and his watch, which Mummy _would_ be upset about, because it had been her father’s. Actually, Sherlock was a bit upset about that as well. One of the idiots punched him hard enough to maybe make him black out for a few moments.

When he blinked himself awake, Sherlock realised immediately that he was lying facedown in a puddle. Somehow, his well-trained brain had apparently taken over and he was holding his breath.

He rolled over with a gasp and stared at the stars.

It occurred to him that his life was not going as well as it might. He resolved to do better.

Which, as it turned out, meant moving out of the residence hall, failing to turn up for his thesis defence, and moving to London so he could get high without being surrounded by annoying people like Seb and Victor. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Mummy was not best pleased.

*

Two days after the whole thing at the pool, Sherlock went back there. It was nearly midnight when he easily bypassed both the lock and the alarm system. Once inside, he stripped naked and dove into the pool.

For twenty minutes, he just swam back and forth, thinking about how he had felt when John Watson walked out strapped in the explosive vest. That first moment of…what? Betrayal? It felt like that certainly, even if only briefly.

But then the idiot had volunteered himself to die only to save Sherlock and that was confusing at best. Sherlock did not like to be confused.

Finally, he took a deep breath and submerged himself.

When he finally surfaced again, gulping in oxygen, he saw his brother standing at the pool’s edge.

“Thank god,” Mycroft said insincerely. “I feared another rescue attempt would be called for.”

Sherlock snorted and hauled himself out of the pool. Mycroft averted his eyes and handed him a towel snagged from the shelf by the door. Neither spoke as Sherlock dried himself and dressed carefully.

Then Mycroft led him out. They stopped on the pavement. “This has only begun, Sherlock. Moriarty, I mean.”

“I am aware.”

“He is the most dangerous man you’ve ever met.”

Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft raised a hand and his car slid into view. “A lift back to Baker Street?”

“Ah...no, no, thank you.” Insincerity was a fraternal trait.

As he climbed into the back seat, Mycroft paused and looked at him. “Be very careful, brother mine. A wrong step could cost you more than you might imagine.” Then he was gone.

Sherlock watched the car until it was out of sight and then began to walk towards the main road in hopes of finding a cab.

*

It was ridiculous, really, and just the kind of thing that John Watson used to specialise in. Last minute rescues. Stupid heroics. Saving Sherlock Holmes, even from himself. Maybe especially from himself.

In times past, when they’d both been younger and more agile, it might have been that Sherlock would have been able to break away from the massive thug on his own. He had his Bartitsu moves after all. Also, it was likely that John would have been able to throw the man aside, as he did now, but without losing his own balance, smashing into the low railing, and somehow falling into the river below.

For just one moment, as he watched his husband disappear into the darkness, Sherlock wondered why over the past two decades [excluding the Bad Years, of course] he had never bothered teaching John to swim. Actually, it was rather a joke between them.

Even as he realised that there was nothing to laugh at now and that a response car had arrived, too late as usual, Sherlock was shedding his coat and shoes and then diving into the water.

When he hit, it hurt a bit, especially his [ _prematurely, John!_ arthritic knee, but he ignored that. After a quick push upwards to fill his lungs, he went back down and, with quiet desperation, searched for John. When he located and grabbed one limp hand, Sherlock felt relief, but only for an instant as he headed for the surface again.

Dragging John behind, he made it rapidly to the muddy, rocky strip of shore. Trying to remember the steps, he first worked to clear the water from John’s lungs and when he still wasn’t breathing, did some mouth-to-mouth until at last John gagged and vomited.

By the time the ambulance appeared, John was already sitting up, with Sherlock’s arms around him. They were talking softly about the possibility of giving it all up and moving to Sussex where Sherlock would tend bees and John could have a dog.

Sherlock took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then exhaled into John’s wet hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Drowned World by J/G. Ballard


End file.
